


blood on his chin

by Karentt1



Series: Needle and Thread [6]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Dark, F/M, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, M/M, Not Beta Read, Recovery, Trauma, all that seem to want him, and there are definitely some mistakes in here, because my head hurts rn, but i hope they arent too cringey, especially after geralt, except for jeremy, fuck everyone but jeremy, hes playing with witchers and witches, i actualyly dont know how vesemir is character wise, i just like hurting jaskier idk man, if anything is wonky, im sorry if that disappoints some of you, kinda feel bad for jaskier ngl, look i know writing both romance and fighting scenes arent my forte, maybe i'll write a fucked up series for yennefer and jaskier after, please tell me, so this is basically an oc, theres no good relationship for him here, this series turned from a horror/thriller, to a character study, y'know jaskier and yennefers relationship wouldn't be that healthy either.....
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:02:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25083574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Karentt1/pseuds/Karentt1
Summary: Vesemir was disappointed. Geralt was desperate. Yennefer was angry. And Jaskier?Well, Jaskier just wanted it all to end no matter what.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Series: Needle and Thread [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1813528
Comments: 32
Kudos: 110
Collections: Interesting Character and/or Interesting Relationship Development





	blood on his chin

**Author's Note:**

> ohh boy. my first series complete. I didn't think people would care so much for some stupid fics I wrote, but y'all surprised me. so thank you. thank you from the bottom of my heart. I hope the ending to this series is satisfactory for you. 
> 
> I might go back and edit all my works tomorrow, just to make sure there is nothing wonky. Mostly likely this one too. I was writing him as me, seems as mean, she as he, it was a mess I tell you.

When Jaskier was younger he wanted a daughter. He wanted to sit her down in his lap and braid her hair, tying it off with her favourite ribbon, and watch as she admired it, smiling wide because she looked like a princess. Jaskier wanted to run his fingers through her hair and comfort her. He wanted to tuck her in at night and read her stories he wrote himself, tell her tales where the princess Adeline and the tailor Sammy fell in love, and Sammy dressed in maiden clothes so he could pretend to be a maid and sneak into the palace to see his love. Jaskier had it all planned out. 

When he got older it didn’t seem possible anymore. He was a travelling bard, hopefully a future court bard. He didn’t have time to settle down and start a family. When he was nineteen he used to write prospect names for his daughter, but he knew it would never happen. Eventually he forgot most of them. The page was torn out and ripped apart in a fit of rage one night when Jaskier was feeling stressed. He didn’t even know he touched it. 

Then he met Geralt and he fell in love. All thoughts of a wife and a daughter flew out of his head when he imagined going to the coast, living in a tiny cottage while Geralt tended a garden on the cliff. It was childish, but he fell asleep imagining Geralt's arms around him. He fell asleep tasting salt on his lips, and feeling the wind of his face. 

He mentioned his dream to Geralt offhandedly one day when they were drunk at a tavern. It was one autumn night, the nights when Jaskier knew Geralt was leaving soon, heading back to Kaer Morhen. He was eating buttered pork and his stomach was pleasantly full, and he felt comfortable telling Geralt about his childish dreams before he set his path. 

“A daughter?” Geralt asked, sounding more sober than he should. Jaskier nodded, resting his hand on his face, looking blankly into the air, picturing her. 

“Yes. Oh, it would have been lovely. She would have had my eyes Geralt. She would have broken hearts.” 

“Why don’t you have one?” 

Jaskier licked his lips, taking another sip of his drink. “Oh you know,” he laughed. He winked at Geralt, trying to appear flirty. Geralt looked away and Jaskier preened. “I have a new dream now. The witchers bard. The bards witcher. This is much better than a child.” 

“Don’t let me stop you from your dreams,” Geralt said, and Jaskier looked at him fully, snapping out of his daydreams. Geralt wasn’t looking at him, rather into his drink and Jaskier laughed at him. 

“Oh darling, don’t worry,” he said, reaching out an arm and squeezing Geralt's shoulder. Geralt looked at it as if it would burn him, as it were evil, and Jaskier wanted to break those who made him feel that way, like a simple touch meant pain. “I love this. I love travelling with you.” 

“I just don’t want to hold you back.” 

“And you’re not. You know where I’d be without you? Probably still playing shitty abortion songs and getting booed at by crowds. You saved me Geralt. I owe everything to you.” 

He stopped and thought a second. “Well, almost everything. If a mediocre bard met you first, dare I say the song wouldn’t be as good as mine. It’s thanks to my brilliant writing that we’re here, but I can’t give myself all the credit can I?” 

“Hilarious,” Geralt said sarcastically, and Jaskier took another sip of his glass, taking back his hand from Geralt's shoulder. 

“Rest assured my dear. I have all I want from you. You’re all I need,” he said. The night seemed to darken in the window behind them, and Geralt didn’t say anything back, just called for another drink. Jaskier watched them in the secret way you did when you were in love and he ached. 

* * *

Jaskier used to imagine running his hand through his daughter's hair. Now Yennefer ran hers through his instead. 

“Settle down,” she murmured quietly in the silence of the room. Jaskier had stopped thrashing hours ago, but she still spoke to him like he was a child in need of comfort, like he wasn’t strong enough to be alone. “I’m here.” 

“I know you are, I can see you right there.” 

“Don’t get cheeky,” she laughed, lightly slapping him on the cheek. He shut his eyes, breathing deeply, feeling vertigo come up inside him. He felt sick, like he had been cut off from something. 

“He’s going to come for me. He always does,” Jaskier whispered. His voice was fearful, and he could almost see Yennefer wrinkling her nose in disgust through his closed eyelids. He knew he wasn’t strong enough for her. 

“I’ll stop him before he does.” 

“And what if you don’t?” 

“I will,” she said firmly. She sounded so confident, so fearless, Jaskier almost believed her. But he knew Geralt. The man was relentless, he barely tired, and he still thought things between them were normal. It had been half a year since he sewed the first blue ribbon, and Jaskier had seen him kill many times in his honour. 

But instead of voicing it, he backed down, something he learned to do lately. He wrapped himself inside the soft blanket and decided to take advantage of the few hours he had to himself. When Geralt eventually found him he would lock Jaskier up, and Jaskier would only be able to watch the world go by outside his window. If Geralt even gave him a window. He would savour these moments for as long as he had them. 

He felt Yennefer's hands leave his hair, leaving behind a trail of ice, and he burrowed deeper into the bed, seeking the warmth Geralt used to give him. 

“I’ll be back soon pet,” Yennefer whispered, and then she was gone with the wind, leaving behind her signature scent. Jaskier breathed it in, the lilacs almost suffocating him. He used to have a lilac tree outside his window at his palace. The scent used to comfort him. Now it almost made him want to throw up. 

He reached into his hair, brushing it through, then startled when he couldn’t feel the lilac lace ribbon in it. It must have fallen out when Yennefer was taking him away. Something inside Jaskier broke when he realised this. There was nothing on him that Geralt had touched except the scars still on his neck and mouth. 

There was no reason he should be disappointed over it. 

* * *

Geralt urged Roach faster as she sailed over fallen logs and rocks littering the path. He had been riding all day and he could feel Roach tiring beneath me, but he couldn’t bring himself to feel sympathy for her, not when Jaskier was in danger. He decided to go on for a few more minutes before stopping for the night. He could rest for a few hours before continuing in the morning. 

The forest was filled with fog, clouding everything in his view. He could barely see two feet away from him, and that was even with his witcher mutations. He was relying on Roach to get them where they needed to be. He put all his trust, all his faith into his horse, and allowed her to take the lead. It gave him time to picture the horrible things Yennefer was doing to Jaskier at the moment. It made him angrier, knowing she was already manipulating him to her whims, turning Jaskier against him. 

Roach stopped suddenly, rearing her legs up, and Geralt held on tightly. He didn’t fall off, and when Geralt tried to get her moving once more, she refused. She didn’t take another step no matter how hard he squeezed her side, instead pacing back and forth in the middle of the path. 

“Come on Roach,” he hissed through clenched teeth. He gripped her reins a bit more tighter than he should be. “Yennefer has probably already hurt him-” 

“Geralt,” a voice said from the fog, and Geralt's head snapped up. Leaning against a tree, fog curling around him, was Vesemir. He seemed strange out here in the woods, something out of place. Geralt couldn’t picture him anywhere but the stone-keep, surrounded by books and fireplaces, reading and making notes inside a tiny notebook at the table. 

“Vesemir,” he breathed, hopping off of Roach to greet his mentor. “What are you doing here?” 

“Yennefer called me,” Vesemir said, stepping closer. He looked pale, sickly in the fog, and Geralt wondered if he had been getting enough sleep. “She told me some very strange things about you.” 

“Whatever she said isn’t true,” Geralt snapped, feeling something inside him break. He was tired of Yennefer's lies; they were too similar for them to be together. He coudln’t believe he once had sex with her. 

Vesemir looked taken aback by his outburst, eyes widening a fraction. He looked around, neck craning to see behind Geralt. “Where’s your bard?” he asked, and Geralt's fists tightened at his sides. He grit his teeth, feeling rage bubble up inside his veins. He used to be so good at hiding it too. What had Jaskier done to him? 

“Yennefer took him,” he snarled. “I’m going to get him back before it’s too late.” 

Vesemir sighed sadly. “So it’s true then. Everything you’ve done.” 

“She’s twisting what I’ve done to make it seem like I’m the bad guy-” Geralt startled, but Vesemir raised a gloved hand and Geralt went silent. He was taken back to the days at Kaer Morhen when Vesemir commanded respect and wielded power over the boys in the keep. Geralt used to be so scared of him. It appeared that Vesemir still boasted power over him even now. 

“Do not say a word boy,” Vesemir said, voice soft and devoid of any emotion. “She told me and I didn’t want to believe it. I thought I raised you better.” He laughed bitterly to himself, as if there was some stupid joke Geralt wasn’t getting. “I didn’t raise you well, I know this. But maybe all this could have been avoided if I was a better mentor.” 

“I was only doing what you taught me.” 

“And what did I ever teach you that gave you the impression I wanted you to forcibly silence someone?” 

“You told me that I could have a sanctuary. A place where I could go when I was overwhelmed. You taught me how to sew.” 

“I wish I hadn’t,” Vesemir muttered. “Maybe in a better life, I could have stopped myself.” 

Geralt watched him silently, feeling his leg begin to shake with nerves. The longer he stood here, the longer it would take to get to Jaskier. He wondered when this dangerous obsession began. Maybe it started all the way back in that tavern when Jaskier approached him for the first time and Geralt thought he was the most beautiful man in existence. 

Vesemir shook his head. “I’m sorry this had to happen. I think I have a responsibility for you, and in association, Jaskier.” 

He stepped away, and now Geralt would have to move forward to reach him with a sword. For some reason, that unnerved him, and Geralt brought his hand up to his shoulder, his fingers wrapping around the wilt of his first weapon. Vesemir watched the motion, looking even sadder. 

“I raised you to die. Not good parenting, I know. But I always knew this day would come,” Vesemir said. He turned around, walking back into the fog. From over his shoulder, he called, “I just came to say goodbye. Yennefer?” 

Geralt unsheathed his sword, the sound echoing around him. A lovely purple glow appeared from the fog, and then Yennefer walked out, the mist swirling around her. She looked beautiful, and Geralt almost stopped what he was doing. Her eyes were filled with anger though, and the air around her thrummed. 

“He’s all yours,” Vesemir said, voice sounding like it was caught in a sob, and then he disappeared back into the fog, the silhouette of his back belding in with the trees. Geralt knew he was walking back to the keep. He would confront Vesemir that winter when he returned. For now, he had something else to deal with. 

“Yennefer,” he growled, holding the sword in front of him, ready to defend himself. “Where is Jaskier?” 

“He’s safe,” she replied, sounding almost bored with the conversation. The slight shake of her body betrayed her. The glow around her disappeared, and then they were alone. Geralt's fingers tightened around the hilt. 

“How could he be safe with you?” 

“How could you ever think the best place for him is beside you?” 

Geralt’s body felt hot, like every piece of him wanted to scream. He trembled, and he tried to stop it. “He chose to follow me.” 

“How could you ever think that was a choice?” Yennefer spit. For a brief second Geralt could see the anger she held in her eyes in her voice instead. He couldn’t believe Jaskier was on the receiving end of that. All the more reason for Geralt to save him. 

“How could you ever think what you gave him was a choice either?” 

“At least I helped him escape,” Yennefer replied, walking closer. They were only a few feet away now. Somewhere in the far off distance thunder crashed, but the storm wasn’t there just yet. It would be some time before it got there, but the two could already smell the rain. 

“You kidnapped him,” Geralt said. 

“Enough,” Yennefer commanded. “I’m going to give you a chance to walk away. Stay away from Jaskier, go back to being a witcher. I won’t hurt you if you set down your swords now.” 

“Never,” Geralt said, getting his feet into position so he could lunge at her easily. 

Yennefer laughed and her fingertips glowed with energy. Her smile was smug and Geralt couldn’t wait to destroy it. “Good. I was lying.” 

She ran at him and spun, her fingertips blocking the sword as it came down, almost plunging into her shoulder, but hitting the air she commanded before it sunk into her skin. The air tackled with power, and the fight began. 

* * *

“Look Geralt,” Jaskier cried, running over to Geralt, red in the face from running. Geralt looked over, already rolling his eyes. He had a contract two villages up the north river and they had to get moving soon. But Jaskier seemed intent to slow them down using any means possible and Geralt was getting sick of it. Jaskier had already stopped them before, running into a buttercup field. 

“Jaskier we don’t have time for this-” 

“Yeah yeah yeah, I heard you the first time you yelled at me,” Jaskier waved, dismissing him. Geralt frowned even harder. “But look! This is important.” 

“What is it?” 

Jaskier shoved something into his hands, looking so damn proud of himself. He smiled widely, and Geralt glared suspiciously at him. Jaskier huffed after a few seconds of silence, finally growing impatient. 

“Look at it silly, that’s why I handed it to you.” He sighed in mock disappointment. “Fucking witchers,” he muttered under his breath, and Geralt rolled his eyes again. He opened his hand to see what Jaskier placed inside, obeying Jaskiers demands. 

“A ribbon?” he asked, holding it up. It wasn’t like the normal style Jaskier usually wore. It was simple, long and gray, with no decorations or designs. Jaskier preferred lighter colours, with pretty things attached to it. Geralt could not imagine Jaskier wearing this, the same way he couldn’t picture Jaskier in his shirt. 

“Yeah,” Jaskier said excitedly, bouncing on his toes. “You use those fucking leather ties, which is not good for your hair, and it’s a shame, your hair is so pretty. So I figured you should have something better. Something that actually looks good.” 

Geralt looked down at his clothes, all black with thick leather boots. “At least it matches,” he grunted, and Jaskier gasped dramatically. 

“I thought this day would never come,” he said happily, making his voice high and pitchy. He winked at Geralt, making sure the man knew he was joking. “A man who thinks pairing black with an even darker black knows colour matching. What a shock! I am in awe!” 

“Jaskier?” Geralt said, putting the ribbon into his pocket, unknowingly next to a lovely little blue one he forgot about for months until one rainy day at an inn. 

“Yes?” Jaskier said, fluttering his eyelashes, trying to look as innocent as possible. If it was someone else who didn’t know Jaskier as well as Geralt did it might have worked. Geralt looked at him, unimpressed. 

“Shut the fuck up.” 

* * *

The ribbon was now wrapped around the handle of Geralt's sword, weary and frayed with age. Geralt refused to take it off; it was like carrying a piece of Jaskier with him, just like it was wearing the lilac lace ribbon in his hair. If Jaskier were there, he’d be scandalised by mixing all black leather with light purple lace. But Jaskier wasn’t there right then. He was trapped with an insane witch, and Geralt still had to rescue him. He had to remember his goal, no matter what Yennefer did. 

He swung again at Yennefer, and she stepped to the side, before sending a blast his way. Geralt rolled away, and the tree behind him split in half, wood chips exploding everywhere. He got back up again, his sword in his hand, the ribbon touching his fingertips, giving him strength. Yennefer snarled and lunged again. 

They had been battling back and forth for some time now. That was the problem, Geralt thought; they were too similar. They were both powerful, they were both equal, and they both wanted Jaskier for different reasons. Geralt shuddered thinking of the horrible things Yennefer would do to him. At least what Geralt did was for Jaskier’s own good. 

“Give up witcher,” Yennefer said, the sky darkening. The storm was at last coming. Geralt thought that maybe it would only last five minutes once it really hit them. At least that meant the fog was clearing up and it was easier for Geralt to see his opponent. 

“Yennefer, let Jaskier go,” Geralt threatened, breathing in hard. 

“Why do you want him so bad? So you could have a punching bag whenever you feel like it? So you could have someone to hurt when you don’t get your way?” Yennefer replied, brushing her hair back. Her words cut like knives, and Geralt could feel himself break under each one. 

“Shut up,” Geralt yelled, swinging his sword besides him. He ran towards her and she created a shield once again. Geralt glared; she had been doing this their entire fight, and he didn’t know how to penetrate it. 

“You don’t want to hear the truth?” Yennefer screamed as the wind howled. The storm was only seconds away now. “You don’t want to hear what you truly did? You fucking broke him Geralt, I hope you burn in hell for that.” 

“You won’t be around to find out,” Geralt growled, swinging his towards her wrist. And then the storm hit. 

* * *

Jaskier was playing his lute, callous covered fingertips strumming away. He could barely even feel the pain anymore, too dedicated to his craft to even care about it. 

The tavern clapped along to his music, singing the chorus with him. His own voice ebbed and flowed with them, sometimes blending with the patrons own, and sometimes rising above theirs, leading them in a lively folk song. Jaskier had never felt more alive than he did in that moment. He felt like a god. 

In the shadows Geralt brooded, watching Jaskier shine. Jaskier caught his eye and smiled as wide as he could, hung up on the euphoria of being free and having every single patron sing along to words he wrote himself. Geralt raised his glass, and Jaskier laughed through his lyrics, before turning back to his audience. 

Jaskier danced between tables, moving through the tavern, winking at the pretty ladies he saw leaning against the walls. He blew a kiss towards one of them, and she giggled, blushing red. Her friends excitedly whispered in her ear, and Jaskier knew that he probably wasn’t staying with Geralt tonight. He vowed to make his way over there later after his performance was up and he earned enough coin for a meal. 

“ _Toss a coin to your witcher, oh valley of plenty, oh valley of plenty,”_ he sang, his voice echoing into the roof and into the night. Across the room he could see Geralt look away, clearly unhappy with the song choice. He never liked it when Jaskier dedicated a poem to him. “ _Toss a coin to your witcher, a friend of-”_

His voice was cut off when he tripped suddenly, his feet finding a knot in the wood. He fell to his knees, his bones hitting the rough floor harshly, and he let out a oomph as he landed. His lute went flying to the side, making a pitiful sound when it landed. The tavern laughed, and he smiled with them, happy to provide some different entertainment. 

He made a motion to get up, but someone chuckled arrogantly, and suddenly Jaskier realised with growing horror where he landed. 

He was kneeling in front of a chair, a man spreading his legs across it, taking up some room. The man was clearly drunk, a few glasses littering the table, and his cheeks were lined with red. Jaskiers face was right between his knees, breath ghosting over the man's pants. 

“I’m very sorry,” Jaskier said, flashing a brilliant smile, getting ready to stand up, when he felt a hand in his hair. The man tugged him back down, laughing. He slurred his words slightly, and Jaskier could smell the alcohol even from on the floor. He wrinkled his nose, realising his new clothes were probably getting dirty from the sticky tavern floor. 

“I don’t mind where you are right now,” the man teased. “You can stay as long as you want sweetheart.” 

“I think I’m good,” Jaskier said, trying to stand up again. The man didn’t let go of his hair, and Jaskier cringed when he found he couldn’t. 

“Aw, don’t be like that,” the man leered. “I can make it worth your while.” 

“You go anywhere near me with your dick and I’ll bite it off,” Jaskier said pleasantly, and the man laughed, loud and angry, like he enjoyed it when Jaskier fought back. Jaskier didn’t think he would in a few minutes. The tavern watched the scene with bated breath and Jaskier could see a few people debating whether or not they should step in. 

“I don’t think you will,” the man said, voice low as he tilted Jaskiers head back. Jaskier flashed him a cocky smile. 

“Why don’t you go and test it then?” 

The man smirked at him and went to pull him up, but was stopped by a gloved hand on his shoulder. Jaskier smiled in relief when he saw who it was. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt gruffly said, standing behind the man's chair. “Are you alright?” 

“Oh definitely,” Jaskier said happily. “Just in a little sticky situation, I’ll be with you in a second, alright? Go enjoy your ale, I’ll be fine.” 

“Are you sure you don’t need help?” 

“Of course not,” Jaskier said, chuckling. The man looked down at him, wounded pride in his eyes. He went to say something, but suddenly Jaskiers fist was in his groin, and he doubled over in pain, letting go of Jaskiers hair. Jaskier hopped up, before driving his knee into the man’s jaw. The man's face snapped back, and the tavern laughed as the man sunk down, curling into a ball, near tears in his eyes. 

“Fuck you,” Jaskier spat down at him. The man groaned from the floor, and Jaskier walked over his limp body, picking up his lute from the floor. 

“Come on Geralt,” he said, tugging the man back to their table, who was looking at him in shock. “I’m sorry folks, but I’ll need a minute before I can be with you again.” 

The tavern erupted into murmurs, no one objecting to his departure, understanding why. The innkeeper knelt down by the man, whispering something in his ear. Someone brought over a mug of ale for Jaskier, and he took it gratefully, drinking the top. 

“I could have handled that,” Geralt said, looking almost impressed with Jaskier. 

“But you didn’t have to,” Jaskier shot back, taking another sip. “But it was sweet of you to step in like that,” he smiled, leaning his head on his arm. He looked up at Geralt, who looked amused by his antics. “My dashing witcher. Oh, you’re so noble. How can anyone call you a monster?” 

“It’s in the job description,” Geralt joked back. Apparently the man before wasn’t the only one influenced by alcohol if Geralt was making jokes. 

“My big bad scary protective witcher,” Jaskier said, a little drunk himself. “What would I ever do without you?” 

“You’d probably be dead already.” 

“Hey,” Jaskier said, sounding betrayed. “I can take care of myself. You saw it back there. I took that man out.” 

“Lucky hit,” Geralt replied, and Jaskier crossed his arms, pouting. Geralt chuckled into his glass. 

The night was warm, filled with good food and company. Geralt had returned from Kaer Morhen a week ago and it was looking like it would be a good year. Jaskier was happy to have his friend back with him again.

* * *

The storm swirled around them, thunder echoing through the sky. Lightning lit up the area more than Yennefer's energy ever could. It only rained a little, just enough to soak them both and just enough to make it hard to see. 

“Why do you fight?” Yennefer screamed, blocking another hit from Geralt. She almost slipped on some mud, but righted herself just in time and continued fighting. Geralt saw her mistake, and began pushing her towards the mud pile, hoping to get her to fall again. He had stable boots; she didn’t. “What reason do you have?” 

“Jaskier,” Geralt replied simply, and Yennefer was just about to roll her eyes, but realised taking her eyes off Geralt wouldn’t end well. 

“That’s not an answer,” she yelled again, straining to be heard over the thunder. It was getting worse, the storm directly above them, whipping their hair wildly. Geralt was glad he tied his hair up with Jaskiers ribbon. Yennefer didn’t have that luxury. “Do you do it out of some misguided sense of duty to him?” 

Geralt didn’t reply, just moved forward. Lightning lit up the sky, illuminating his golden eyes in a single flash. They were filled with so much determination, filled with so much hatred. Yennefer wasn’t afraid of him.

“What is it Geralt?” she screamed. She blocked another hit, and felt the vibrations travel all the way down her arm, shaking her from the inside. “Is it love?” 

“I don’t love him,” Geralt said quickly, moving away so you could attack again. Yennefer watched him, eyes burning. The answer was so casual, so practiced. She wondered if that was something Geralt actually believed. 

“Are you fucking kidding me?” She threw her arms open wide, sending a blast towards him. “All this, all this fucking fighting for someone you claim not to love? Bullshit. You don’t fight this hard for someone you’re neutral too.” 

“I don’t love him,” Geralt repeated, rain running down his cheeks. His skin was still pale, and he almost looked dead already. 

“You can’t be serious. Geralt, what you have done, all the fighting, all the sewing, all the abuse, has been to keep him by your side, because you’re scared of losing him. You’re scared of losing him to lies, losing him to monsters, and most of all, losing him because of you. You love him you fool.” 

Geralt's eyes flashed as the last thunderclap filled the sky, sounding like war drums pounding over daisy fields. “I don’t love him,” he repeated for the third time, but he was hesitant, like he was evaluating every single thing he knew, looking for evidence of Yennefer's claim. 

“You see?” Yennefer called. “Don’t you ever wonder why he stayed so long? Or why you let him follow you for so long?” 

“That can’t be right,” Geralt muttered, his voice hesitant. He took a step back, sword lowering just an inch to the ground, a mere human wouldn’t have noticed, but Yennefer did, and she took her chance. She lunged forward, and Geralt didn’t have time to lift his sword again to block it. 

A glowing purple dagger plunged into Geralt's throat. It glowed for a moment longer before solidifying, locking into Geralt's skin. Yennefer jabbed the weapon up so the knife travelled into his mouth, up into his head as well, tearing through his back throat. She let the weapon go, backing up, watching as Geralt's eyes filled with too late understanding. The rain slowed down, and Yennefer could see blue skies in the distance. The fog was gone and the storm was leaving . 

“You love him,” she repeated slowly, watching as Geralt fell to his knees, the sword dropping from his hands. It hit the dirt with a clack a few feet away from him. Geralt brought his hands up to his throat, clutching the knife. 

“Damn you witch,” he spat, blood pouring from his mouth down his chin. Yennefer felt no remorse for him; that was how she pictured Jaskier when Geralt sewed his lips together, blood on his chin. 

Geralt collapsed face down into the dirt and he didn’t move again. Sunlight peeked through the clouds, brightening his body like angels coming to collect his soul. Yennefer knew he was going to hell. She waited a few seconds before kneeling down, touching his neck, looking for a pulse. When she didn’t find one she breathed a sigh, and backed away. 

She wiped a singular tear away from her cheek, so harshly she was sure she tore skin away with her nail. She once loved this man; she allowed herself this one small thing. 

She won. She knew she would and she relished in her victory. But a small part of her mourned for the man, and she didn’t know if she should continue to let it. 

* * *

Jaskier’s eyes fluttered open to see an old man sitting in the chair previously occupied by Yennefer. He shuffled in the bed, and the man looked over, seemingly lost in thought. 

“Hello Jaskier,” the old man said softly, and Jaskier blinked a few times, processing the words. 

“How do you know my name?” he eventually asked. 

The old man laughed, but it sounded weary, like he was broken down by the world. “I’m sorry for what my son has done to you,” he said, ignoring the question. 

“What did you say-” Jaskier started, but the man shushed him, standing up slowly. His bones creaked when he did, and Jaskier could see the experience the man had. 

“Sleep. You deserve it,” the man said, then walked out of the room, leaving Jaskier behind to sink into slumber again. 

* * *

When he woke up again, Yennefer was sitting beside him. She was looking at her hands intently, lost in thought. Jaskier watched her for a few seconds, blinking slowly. He couldn’t believe how almost peaceful she looked. It wasn’t the Yennefer he was used to. Maybe that was how Yennefer felt that day at the bar, watching as Jaskier drank, being someone who he shouldn’t be. 

Eventually he shifted slightly in the bed, alerting her. Her head snapped up, and much to Jaskiers surprise, there were no tears in her eyes. He should have expected that, but he thought she would show something more than regret. 

“Are you alright?” Jaskier asked, voice hoarse from not using it. He coughed, clearing his throat out. 

“I should be asking you that,” Yennefer laughed sadly. She fiddled with her hands, cupping something inside them. It was hidden from Jaskiers eyes, and he watched it curiously. 

“I wasn’t the one to fight him. Did you win?” 

“I’m still standing here, aren’t I?” 

“I guess you’re right,” Jaskier said, tearing his eyes away from her, looking up at the ceiling. Light streamed in from the window, and Jaskier could tell it was the middle of the day. He slept for a long time. 

He licked his lips, his hands shaking. He wondered if he should even ask. He wondered if he would like the answer given to him. 

“What happened to him?” he whispered at last, pursing his lips. 

Yennefer sighed, then unclasped her hands. She held it up into the sun, and Geralt's medallion reflected the light, glistening. It spun in the air, Yennefer holding it up by the leather strap. 

“Oh,” Jaskier said. Yennefer draped it over his legs, still covered by the blankets, and Jaskier reached out to touch it. It was warm, heated by Yennefer's hands, and he picked it up slowly. His finger circled the metal disk, and then he was crying, clutching it close to his throat, the tears streaming down his cheeks into his ears. His breath caught in his chest, his cheeks turning blotchy red as he gasped and hiccuped. Yennefer didn’t comfort him this time, just watched him cry. Jaskier didn’t think she could comfort him about this. 

Eventually his tears ran out and he stopped sobbing. He brought the medallion back up, touching the metal to his lips. He gently kissed it, pressing it down with his fingers, then pulled it away, clutched it tighter, taking some deep breaths. 

“Are you done?” Yennefer asked, sounding close to crying herself. Jaskier nodded and sat up, leaving the medallion curled in his lap. 

“I think so,” Jaskier said softly, meaning it. 

“Good,” she nodded. She stood up from the chair, stretching her arms above her head. Jaskier wondered how long she had sat there, waiting for him to wake up. 

“Thank you,” Jaskier whispered, and Yennefer nodded in acknowledgement. 

“You’ll be staying here until you’re fully healed,” Yennefer commanded. Jaskier agreed; he didn’t think he could disagree with anything right then. “No matter how long it takes. I’ll be back to check on you in a few hours. Do you need anything?” 

Jaskier licked his lips nervously. “Maybe some water and something to eat?” he said slowly. Yennefer nodded like it wasn’t a big deal and Jaskier felt relief fill him. He was parched and his stomach was heavy with emptiness. 

“I’ll tell Lucie to bring it over. Anything else?” 

“A lute?” Jaskier added at the last minute, pleading with her. His eyes flashed in the sun and Yennefer sighed, relenting under his stare. 

“Fine, I’ll get you a lute too,” she said, and Jaskier cheered from the bed. “Just as long as you don’t hurt yourself,” Yennefer added, and Jaskier smiled. It felt like the first time he had in years. 

“I won't.” 

“Good. and Jaskier?” 

Jaskier looked up, watching as Yennefer walked back over to his bedside, looming over him, eyes looking at him intently. “Yes?” he asked. 

Yennefer knotted her hands in his hair and yanked him up, pressing her lips against his. She kissed him violently, almost like she was conquering something instead of loving it, and Jaskier couldn't kiss her back. She didn’t seem to mind; the kiss seemed to go on for minutes until Jaskier was red in the face and his lungs screamed in pain. 

Yennefer pulled away, licking her lips. “Don’t leave this bed,” she demanded, and Jaskier frantically nodded, reeling. She smiled at him, and walked out, slamming the door behind her, leaving Jaskier alone in silence. 

He brought his fingers up to his lips, touching them lightly. The pressure felt better than Yennefer's lips at least. He took a deep breath, calming his racing heart, and fell back down onto the bed. The medallion slipped down from Jaskiers lap and caught it, bringing it back up. 

He didn’t want it. But he didn’t know what else to do with it. 

He started imagining his life on the coast, if Yennefer ever actually let him leave her home. He imagined that she would make him stay for years until she deemed him healed enough. Jaskier was willing to wait; he still had tiny scars everywhere Geralt's needle tore through skin. If anyone could fix that, it was Yennefer. 

This time though, in his fantasies he was alone. He used to imagine Geralt with his arms around Jaskier as they watched the sea. Now he was alone in watching the waves crash on shore. He didn’t mind it. Maybe being alone wasn’t so bad. He could scream all the more louder that way. 

He imagined having a little garden. He could plant tomatoes and carrots and lettuce and potatoes. He could even have a tiny herb garden, and he could cook for his visitors, if anyone even cared enough to drop by. Geralt was the only person he really grew attached to over the years; he wondered if it was too late to make new friends. 

His gaze caught once more on the medallion, shining in the brightened room. He brushed his fingers along it, feeling the bumps and ridges. 

Maybe he could plant some buttercups in the garden. For Geralt. For himself. Jaskier laughed; maybe it would even help him heal. That was something people did right? Create memorials for the people they lost. That was why people had funerals. To have closure one last time. 

A tear slipped down his cheek once more. Yeah. Yeah, he could do that. Plant one more buttercup for Geralt and throw out all his ribbons. He could do that small thing at least. 

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for sticking by so long! love y'all!


End file.
